Page 64 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

"I'll show you with my actions." I stood in front of Elena and touched her face with the back of my clean hand. "Leave this to me. You're going to be a mother now. You shouldn't overwork yourself."

She looked better than she had at the manor—her complexion rosier. She seemed to want to say something but held back. Finally, with a look of resignation, she said, "Do what you want."

For the next week, I stayed at a nearby five-star hotel. Every morning I'd come straight here to help Elena renovate her shop.

At first, Elena and Maggie resisted my presence, but I didn't explain much. I just quietly helped assemble shelving and decorate the walls. I'd never done this kind of work before, but being near Elena—even sweating and exhausted—gave me a strange sense of happiness.

Elena worked at a design table nearby, making clothes. The surface was covered with sketches. She used chalk to mark lines on fabric, head down, her profile soft in the morning light.

I tightened the last screw and stood the wooden shelf upright, steady against the wall.

Elena didn't notice yet, still focused on comparing her designs. That afternoon, a strange man walked into the shop. Elena's expression softened when she saw him. "Diego, you came."

Diego?

Male instinct kicked in. I pulled Elena into my arms and extended my hand to the man. "Hello, I'm Elena's husband."

Diego adjusted his glasses and nodded politely, shaking my hand. "Hello, Diego Ramirez. I'm Luca's friend."

Luca.

At that name, my defenses went up. I squeezed Diego's hand tighter. He made an exaggerated sound and quickly pulled his hand away, shaking it in front of Elena. "Good God! Your husband is brutal!"

Elena laughed behind her hand. "Did you talk to that fabric wholesaler you mentioned? Can we pick up the goods today?"

Diego nodded, then looked at me. "Is he coming too?"

Before Elena could answer, I pulled her close by the waist. "Of course I'm staying with my wife."

Maggie stayed to watch the shop. Diego drove Elena and me to the fabric market.

The Vallarta market was nothing like New York.

No skyscrapers, no suits and ties—just row after row of open-air vendors. Colorful awnings stretched out like a vivid painting. The fabric wholesaler Diego mentioned was on the east side, his stall piled high with every color and type of fabric—cotton, linen, satin—stacked taller than a person.

Elena stood before those piles, carefully running her hands over each piece, feeling the texture and weight, completely focused. Finally she chose several: cream-colored linen, light blue cotton, deep green satin.

I knew business management, but nothing about fabrics. I gathered everything into my arms. "Elena, what are you making with these?"

"It's hot here. Sundresses sell best." She looked up at me, smiling. "And my shop's location is good. Business should be decent."

"If you need advertising and marketing, I can have the company's marketing department handle promotion for you." My voice was steady, but my body had started sweating, droplets running down my face.

Elena noticed and instinctively wiped the sweat away. When her hand touched my face—that gentle touch, her warmth that didn't belong to me—heat flooded my body.

I swallowed and stopped walking, looking at her.

Elena stopped too. I wanted to drop everything I was holding, pull her into some empty alley, and kiss her hard. She seemed to read the desire in my eyes. Her face flushed instantly. "We—we should get back!"

Diego drove us back to the shop. Before leaving, he told Elena, "Call me if you need help."

Ridiculous. I was the family Don, standing right here, and he still needed to fawn over my wife? I was about to send him packing when Elena smiled and waved. "Okay, I will."

His car pulled away. Anger flared in my chest. I grabbed Elena's wrist, pulled her inside the shop, slammed the door shut, and pressed her body against it.

"What are you—" Her words were cut off as I swallowed them.

I kissed her lips hungrily, breathing in that natural floral scent on her skin. Every pore in my body felt satisfied. She pushed lightly against me—that kind of resistance was practically foreplay.